


In Which Rose Isn't Quite On Top of Things and Eridan is the World's Least Competent Siren

by NevillesGran



Series: Project SSCAIA [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: (immanent), Dubious Ethics, Medical Experimentation, electroshock, psychiatry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 03:01:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3103097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NevillesGran/pseuds/NevillesGran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Your newest subject looks like a he should be sitting in a Starbucks, sipping overpriced chair tea and sneering at passerby. His long legs would look sublime in skinny jeans, his aristocratic nose would look perfect with thick, lensless glasses perched on its arch, and his pale collarbone practically begs to be wrapped in a pretentiously long scarf. There would never have been a more irritatingly attractive hipster, so cliché that nobody would have noticed the fins behind his ears.</p><p>It's a bit of a shame he's perched uneasily on a couch instead, wearing nothing but a hospital gown and metal anklet. You shut down even that purely aesthetic complaint. He'll get his clothes back later, when he gets to his new room. For now, it's time for a psyche evaluation."</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Rose Isn't Quite On Top of Things and Eridan is the World's Least Competent Siren

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry that is the lamest title ever.

Your newest subject looks like a he should be sitting in a Starbucks, sipping overpriced chair tea and sneering at passerby. His long legs would look sublime in skinny jeans, his aristocratic nose would look perfect with thick, lensless glasses perched on its arch, and his pale collarbone practically begs to be wrapped in a pretentiously long scarf. There would never have been a more irritatingly attractive hipster, so cliché that nobody would have noticed the fins behind his ears.

It's a bit of a shame he's perched uneasily on a couch instead, wearing nothing but a hospital gown and metal anklet. You shut down even that purely aesthetic complaint. He'll get his clothes back later, when he gets to his new room. For now, it's time for a psyche evaluation.

"To be clear," you begin, "not only do I have the trigger to the device on your ankle, but this entire conversation is being monitored from a separate room, by personnel who  _also_ have remote controls. In short, I would  _strongly_ advise against attempting to lead me to my metaphorical watery grave any time in the next hour - or, in fact, any time at all. The same goes for any member of my team. Is that understood?"

The siren nods stiffly.

"Excellent." You lean forward and offer your hand. "My name is Dr. Lalonde. I will be chiefly responsible for examining and analyzing your psyche throughout this experiment, in an attempt to discover whether supernatural creatures have different cognitive processes than humans." You let your smile slip to razor-thin. "I'm also the chief scientist on this project, so if there is anyone you want to piss off, it is most certainly  _not_ me."

He's been glaring at your hand like it was a dead bird dropped on his porch by a mangy stray cat, but at that, he hardens his face into something less obviously belligerent and extends his own hand to shake yours. 

"And your name is?" you prompt. As if you don’t have his file on your lap.

His stare is sullen and he crosses his arms defensively across his chest, but he replies. "Ampora. Eridan Ampora."

You let your smile widen into something more welcoming again, though experience has taught you most people still find it fairly predatory. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Ampora. Are you comfortable? I understand you are naturally amphibious - have you had enough water?"

"I ain't no frog, Doc."

"But you do have a supplementary, gill-based pulmonary system."

He shrugs noncommittally, but a flicker of his eyes reveal unease. You expect he's wondering how much you know. You are content with that. 

"I am only trying to put you more at ease, as any regular psychiatrist would. It would no doubt help if you thought of our talks, of which this is only the first, as the ordinary sort of weekly appointment one might make with a private psychiatric practitioner."

He roll his eyes. In fairness, were the situation reversed, you're fairly certain you would have done exactly the same. 

You steeple your fingers, a habit picked up from far too many cheesy tv shows. "My part in this experiment depends on getting honest answers out of you and the other subjects. I won't pretend we can necessarily be anything like friends, but I can assure you that your discomfort is  _not_ a goal of the project, particularly not mine. As head of the research team, it is already my job to remain neutral on any and all disputes that may arise." You settle back into your chair and rest your hands on your lap, no hint of your posture indicating you might be on the offensive.

"Our appointment times are fixed, so whether or not you choose to talk, we will be here until the hour is up."

"Fine." He stretches out his legs and leans back, arms behind his head in a deliberately relaxed pose. Nonetheless, every muscle is clearly tensed. In repartee, you relax your posture even further, sliding down slightly in the chair, and pull your phone out of your pocket. It would be impolite to check your emails while in session, so you open Words with Friends and begin a game against the computer, watching the siren out of the corner of your eyes.

He keeps his position for nearly ten minutes, out of sheer stubbornness based on the increasingly determined expression on his face. When you have 157 to the computer's 195, he pulls in his legs and crosses his arms over his chest again, glaring at you but possibly also at the world in general. A couple turns later (232 to 221, ha) he leans back again, starting to genuinely relax, and begin humming quietly.

You listen for a couple minutes before the tunelessness evolves into something vaguely familiar. At least, the rhythm is about right for Vivaldi's Concerto in G, one of your favorite violin pieces. But, even adjusting for the key change, some two thirds of the notes are at least a full step off-key, and several others a good quarter beat off.

At least it seems to be calming Eridan further, letting him slide into an almost languid slouch. His mouth upturns at one corner, a seductive smirk that is completely  _ruined_ by the accompanying dimple. But ruined in a cute way, that still invited kisses. He is definitely an objectively attractive specimen.

More out of perfectionism than anything, though perhaps will foster a sense of companionship, you purse your lips and began to whistle along, hitting every note the siren misses in perfect 4/4 time. You could play the Concerto in G without sheet music. 

For about two lines worth, you kept up an erratic harmony as Eridan's eyes grow wider. Finally he breaks off, purple eyes narrowed. "Do _not_ tell me you havve perfect pitch."

You let your last note trail off as you look at him curiously. "Yes, actually. Do you not? I was given to understand that it is an inherent trait of species which use music in their magic."

"Not evveryone," Eridan scowls. His shoulders are hunched about as high as they would go, arms once more tight across his chest.

You cover your smile in one delicate hand. Tone-deaf. Based on that abysmal performance, the siren is tone-deaf. So much for typical samples, you guess. Oh well, you can still get most of the data. Presumably the psychic element of his abilities still work, even if not audio-reinforced...

Oh, you are an idiot. You have slipped up so badly, it's only by a miracle of mutual incompetence that you can still salvage this situation.

Your hand slices down to the remote control in your lap and slams the button that releases a short shock of electricity directly to the siren's nerves. He spasms, shouts, clutching toward his ankle.

"Mr. Ampora," you say crisply. "I believe I was perfectly clear at the start of the session about the consequences of you attempting to entrap me. Was there any confusion on the subject?"

With your other hand, you signal the camera in the corner that everything is under control—though the fact that Ampora’s anklet didn’t activate five minutes ago means John was just as oblivious to what the siren was attempting as you were. _Fuck,_ you botched this one.

"It's not like it wworked," he gets out through gritted teeth.

No one on your research team has any supernatural abilities, nor ever has (you snapped your wands years ago and never looked back, it’s okay, nobody knows who you don’t trust not to tell.) You completely dropped the ball here, but it’s imperative that what he takes from this is that _even then_ you kept the upper hand.

“You’re right, it didn’t. I doubt you could carry a tune in a bucket.” You give him a second jolt, enough to make him shiver and grimace hard. “But it’s the thought that counts.” Would a third shock emphasize the point, or just demonstrate your own nerves? Probably the latter. You refrain.

He brings his legs up to his chest to curl up on the sofa in a ball, still shaking just a bit. "Wwell golly, I wwonder howw bein' kidnapped off the street and turned into a science experiment cod make me havve any thoughts a' usin' my limited abilities to fight back an' escape! That’s just unbeleelvable!"

His drawn-out, wavery accent is thicker when he’s distressed or angry, you note.

This has  _not_ been a good first session. You decide to cut your losses. “Very well, I can see how you might be unduly distressed over your change of circumstances right now. With that in mind, I am prepared to reschedule the rest of this introductory session to tomorrow.”

He meets your eyes for the first time, a mixture of hope and suspicion floating therein.

You stand. “Please note that this is nothing but a postponement, and when we meet tomorrow, I will still be waiting for you to talk to me. There will be no negative consequences if you choose to sulk the entire time, of course – such behavior would, in fact, be equally insightful, if less entertaining. But there will be  _no_ musical interludes.” You stalk a few steps to where he is huddled on the couch, and lower your voice. Your finger presses gently on the trigger to his anklet, enough to send pins and needles racing painfully through his body. “This is a serious study, Mr. Ampora, and we require your full cooperation.  _Is that understood?_ ”

He nods and squeaks, “Yes.” You let up the electricity.

With perfect timing, John knocks twice then opens the door.

“Letting class out early, professor?” he says with a wink and a grin that looks genuinely relaxed, even to your adroit eyes. “You’re getting soft!”

You roll your eyes, stepping back so he can help Eridan off the couch. “Don’t let him hum, or make any other attempt at music.” You put a slight emphasis on “attempt”, and hide your satisfaction at Eridan’s flinch. Who needs a psych degree and electrocution device when you have maternally honed passive-aggressiveness?

John salutes with his non-Eridan-holding hand then lets it fall to the remote on his belt. “All right, buddy, let’s go check out your new room!”

Once John has led your new subject from the room, your first instinct is to plop down hard on the vacated sofa and put your face in your hands. Instead, you settle yourself gently back in your own chair, pose undeniably reminiscent of  _The Thinker_ . Because you have poise, damn it, and nothing terrible actually happened just now.

Mostly because Eridan apparently couldn’t sing on-key if he was literally standing on a giant model key, made of plastic foam and coated in superglue to prevent anyone from falling off.

You have clearly been spending too much time with Dave recently, if that’s the metaphor to which your brain leaps.

If his humming had been recognizable as something actually resembling music, you reassure yourself, either you or John (via camera, well out of range of psychic influence) would have noticed instantly what he was doing. If he had made an obvious attempt to either murder you or escape, Dirk Strider’s AI security system would (allegedly) have reacted as well.

Ironically, it was the siren’s own failure of pitch that led to him humming so long that you started to consider his dimple remotely kissable. Even then, the sentiment was detatched.

Then again, you have an advantage, not being interested in men as anything more than pleasing to look at. If any of your subjects are going to be a problem in  _that_ regard, it will be the lovely vampire they brought in yesterday, with the alabaster skin and elegant-

Pull yourself together, Rose! You haven’t even spoken with the woman yet, and anyway this is exactly the sort of thought you have to  _avoid_ ! Vampires may or may not have some powers of sexual attraction as well – legends contradict.

You wonder whether someone with a less refined ear for music would be more vulnerable to a tone-deaf siren. You may have to ask Jade or Jake to volunteer for that test – with supervision, of course.


End file.
